


Unspoken

by starry_night_skies



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017)
Genre: Elio is an angsty bitch, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:02:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24106408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starry_night_skies/pseuds/starry_night_skies
Summary: Oliver returns to Crema. Elio is still not over him. Emotional chaos ensues.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 40
Kudos: 144





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! I'm pretty new to this fandom, and I haven't written fanfiction in about four years, but this just had to be written because I love these boys. This fandom seems lovely, so I thought... why not post it too?
> 
> Anyway, any feedback/kudos/etc. is much appreciated! Thank you for reading!

“Oliver!”

I snap my eyes open, almost certain that I’d been asleep, but my mother’s voice intercepts any thought of convincing myself of that lie.

“It’s so good to see you!”

My father’s voice interjects, blends together with _maman_ ’s, both getting quieter.

“…should have called…”

“…could’ve picked you up…”

An all-too-familiar laugh rings through, deep, warm, quiet yet penetrating my ear drums and going straight to my chest. I close my eyes again, flicking the sunglasses that have been sitting in my curls down to cover half my face. Pretending to sleep. Avoiding… confrontation.

It’s _La Settimana Santa_ – Holy Week, the week leading up to Easter – and we arrived back at our villa last night. Although we don’t celebrate Easter, my parents take every opportunity to spend time away from their daily routines; we even spend our birthdays here most years, making them a weekend-long occasion.

Only this year, Easter will be different. Mafalda will still make her world-famous (or, at least, it should be famous everywhere) lamb roast, Dad will tell the same stories of how he and _maman_ met, decades ago, right around Easter, and… Oliver will be here.

When my parents informed me of this news, I knew that they thought I might want to stay at our house in Milan. That I wouldn’t be able to bear seeing Oliver again, after that phone call just mere months ago. My mother had kissed my cheeks, my father had looked at me like he understood, they both reassured me that it would only be a few days and that I was old enough to stay on my own and that they wouldn’t be angry but-

What can I say, I’m stubborn.

The voices start to approach now, and my head lolls onto my shoulder; trying to look as nonchalant and – most importantly – asleep as possible. It’s the middle of April, too cool to sunbathe and go swimming but still warm enough to sit in the garden and read a book (which is propped on my chest as if I’d fallen asleep while reading).

I grip an edge of my book with my thumb and forefinger, the cardboard digging into the delicate stretch of skin between them, when I hear him approach. He’s charming as always, telling my parents how much he’d missed this place, how good it is to see them. I barely hear the words, focusing on the tremble of his voice, almost able to feel his warm breath as he whispers against my cheek—

No. _Be good, Elio_ , I tell myself. _He’s getting married in a few weeks. To a woman. Who’s probably just as smart as him and just as gorgeous and their kids will take over the whole fucking world._

It’s difficult, but it works for now.

“Oh, he’s still napping,” I hear Dad whisper, glad that he’s not making me say hello to Oliver right away. Glad that he’s giving me time. He knows I’ll need it.

I feel a presence lingering right by my chair, even as two sets of footsteps disappear. Peeking an eye open, just a little – I’m safe, I have my sunglasses – I see _him_ right there, just looking. Staring. At my skinny legs, at the hand tightly holding on to the book on my chest, his eyes wandering up. Probably to my unruly mess of hair; I’ve let my curls grow out a little, they’re longer than they were last summer. I’m not sure what he thinks of them, his face is unreadable.

“…Hi, Elio.” The first words he’s directed at me since our call, since he told me… and they’re making the fine hairs on my arms stand up. Still, I make no attempt to move, nervous that I’ll make a fool out of myself. That I’ll say something I’ll regret later.

Oliver’s still looking at me; I can feel it even though my eyes are closed. I let him. It’s pathetic – if anyone knew I was awake right now and doing… this, they’d consider me insane.

“It’s so good to see you, I—“

“Oliver!”

Dad’s call seems to snap Oliver out of whatever he was in and clear his throat; I hear him turn, the pebbles under his shoes scratching, before he walks away.

I stay in the garden for a little while longer, until I know that my father has dragged Oliver off to his study to show him some new findings, before sneaking back into the house and up to my room. _Maman_ promised me that I could keep my room this time and Oliver would be in the spare – he apparently isn’t here for business, not this time, and it’ll only be a few days anyway. Oliver is going back home, back to New York, on Easter Monday.

I busy myself with reading and transcribing and doing homework until dinner, alternating between the three because I can’t keep my focus on one thing for more than a few minutes. It’s frustrating. Hearing the stairs creak with heavy footsteps weighing them down, hearing the toilet flush through the closed door, hearing Oliver rummage through his things – or mine – in the other room.

Finally, the dinner bell releases me. I shut my journal, a little too forcefully perhaps, and slide a light jacket over my shoulders. It’s still warm out, but… I feel better this way. Protected. As if something was going to hurt me. Someone.

Although I’m ready, I still wait to hear the door right next to mine open and shut, the heavy steps going down the stairs again. I don’t want my first interaction with Oliver to be alone. I might… say something. Do something. I don’t really know why it’s such a big deal to me, it just _is_ , and my parents need to be there. There is no logic to it.

After waiting for what seems like an appropriate amount of time, I head downstairs, the warm smell of Mafalda’s lasagne greeting me. I enter the living room, ignoring the fleck of blond hair in the corner of my eye to wrap an arm around _maman_ and let her kiss my cheek.

“Ça va, chéri?” She whispers. She worries too much.

“Mmh. Oui.” I’m already distracted, my eyes betraying me by searching to meet Oliver’s, who’s standing behind the sofa, a glass of red wine in his hand, a timid-looking smile on his lips.

“…Hey.”

“Hi.”

My mother doesn’t allow for more than five seconds of silence between us, so she quickly ushers us both outside, where she and Mafalda have set the table beautifully. I’m glad I’m wearing a jacket; goosebumps spread on my arms again when Oliver brushes past me, almost touching but not quite, to hug Mafalda, making me wrap my arms around myself and shiver. Another worried look from my mother, but I shake my head, claiming that I’m just a little cold.

Dinner is a boisterous affair, with my parents pestering Oliver about each and every detail of his life – his apartment, his studies, his plans for later. His… engagement doesn’t come up, to my surprise, as my parents are usually not shy about invading other people’s privacy. But, I guess, they know that I’d probably leave the table, and then they’d have to explain _that_ to Oliver, and it would be a big, awkward mess. I can’t decide if I’m grateful or if my curiosity will take over at some point.

I’m quiet through most of the conversation, even helping myself to seconds because I don’t want dinner to be over yet. I barely notice if I’m full or not, too occupied with listening to each and every word Oliver is saying. This time, I also listen to _what_ he’s saying, not just his voice. I’m on my best behaviour tonight.

That is, until the bomb drops.

“…and this summer, I was thinking of going to Paris for a while. I already booked the trip, back when I was engaged—“

“What?”

My head snaps up, eyes wide with surprise. Shock. When Oliver _was_ engaged. Past tense. Why is he not engaged anymore?

“Uh.” Oliver looks just as surprised, since that’s the first word I’ve spoken throughout dinner. “Yeah. Hah. I—We called it off a few weeks ago. It just… didn’t feel right, you know?”

That’s all he offers me.

I feel my mother’s reassuring hand on top of mine as I stare at Oliver, who clears his throat and dabs a napkin against his lips. I know he knows I’m looking at him. He seems unable to meet my eyes.

“Why are you here—“

“I should… Uh. Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Perlman.” Oliver’s chair scrapes on the ground as he pushes it back forcefully. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a lasagne that good. But… uhm, jetlag… I’m gonna call it a night. Thank you again.”

With that, Oliver leaves, and my mother berates me for prying as if she didn’t do the same, as if I haven’t learned it from her. I don’t reply, I just watch that blond head of hair disappear into the dark house, feeling my father’s eyes on me.

That night, I don’t sleep.

Okay, maybe I sleep a little bit. But it’s a fitful sleep, interwoven with dreams too vivid to be just that, dreams. They’re memories.

Memories of the beat of drums, the vibration of a bass, sweat and alcohol and cigarettes. Warm, tan skin against mine, the smell of summer, the sticky feeling of sunscreen. Slow movements, something wet, sharp against my sensitive neck. Teeth. Tongue. Lips. Too much and not enough at the same time.

My own soft whine wakes me up, hands bunching up the sheets as my face is pressed into the pillow, the duvet tangled around my legs. It’s too warm, and disorienting, and it takes me a moment to recognise my own room. Just a dream. A vivid dream, one that makes me wish it were real. A memory that one _was_ real.

I try to ignore that Oliver is in the next room, and that I could probably hear him snore through the wall if I sat there the rest of the night, and close my eyes again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An overdue conversation.

The next morning is a little better. Not much, but. Small victories.

We eat breakfast in the dining room – it’s too chilly to go outside yet – and I can’t stop sneaking glances at our houseguest. Apparently, he still doesn’t know how to properly open and eat a soft-boiled egg, nimble hands being too forceful; another thing that reminds me of last summer. Mafalda just rolls her eyes. I already know she’ll open the egg for Oliver tomorrow.

Compared to my sluggish and sleepy demeanour, Oliver appears to have gotten a good night’s sleep. No one mentions last night’s dinner conversation, opting to chat about the weather and today’s plans instead.

When my father asks me, I shrug and open my mouth to respond, but I don’t get the chance to.

“Uh—Elio wanted to show me something in town.” My eyes flick to Oliver’s, brows rising slowly. “And—I need to check in at the bank, I forgot to dissolve my account, and…”

I decide not to torture him any further with his desperate attempt to come up with excuses. “Sure.” I take a sip of tea, looking down at my half-empty plate. “Yeah. We’ll go into town.”

I feel my mother’s hand on my knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Luckily, she doesn’t say anything to embarrass me.

“…Cool.”

I know Oliver as an impatient and slightly nervous man, so it surprises me when he actually waits while I get dressed. The Oliver from last summer would’ve left already, called me ‘slowpoke’ with that annoying grin I loved.

“Ready?” He’s shuffling his feet, waiting by the door as I walk down the stairs. Okay, maybe he’s still that same man, but… at least he waited.

“Mhm.” I nod and reach past him to open the door, hurrying out and heading to the gate without looking back at him. I’ve avoided staring at him for too long since he arrived yesterday, and I don’t plan to stop anytime soon. There are no guarantees for what I’d do.

The walk into town is quiet, only for a few minutes.

“So—I lied.”

I raise my brows again as I glance at Oliver. He’s still looking nervous. “About what?”

“Going into town.” I stop in my tracks when he does, looking at him as he stares at his shoes. Almost bashful. “I just… I…”

“What?” It comes out a little more aggressive than I want it to, and I feel a little bad when he gives me a sad look. Like a damn puppy—

“I mean. What is it?” I try to be a little more gentle, which seems to do the trick.

“Can we just… go somewhere, go to the lake… and talk?”

The lake. Where we first… The _lake_. Our spot. Technically just mine, but… I showed it to him, didn’t I? It’s my own damn fault.

“I’m not sure that’s such a good—“

“Please.” Another sad look. _Merde_. I have to look away. “Please, Elio.”

The walk to the lake is short, but my shoulders are still a hundred times more tense than they were at breakfast. I don’t want to get my hopes up – I don’t even want to think about getting my hopes up, and what for – so I focus on breathing, on setting one foot in front of the other, on Oliver’s steady presence next to me.

We soon sit by a tree – it’s far too cold to swim, although it would be funny to see how Oliver would cope with the almost freezing water – almost two metres apart; quiet. I don’t want to say something first, since Oliver is the one who asked for this, and I don’t want to be weak, but… the silence stretches, heavy and slightly awkward, for far too long. I’m not strong enough for this.

“So—“

“I’m sorry.” It comes out in a breath, rushed and quiet. I’m not sure if I heard correctly, when… “I’m—I’m sorry, Elio.”

It takes me a moment to gather my thoughts – a long moment which I use to stare at Oliver’s profile, at the slope of his nose and his prominent chin and his blonde hair mussed and strands of it covering his eyes – before taking a deep breath. I didn’t realise I’ve been holding it for a little while.

“…For what?”

Oliver meets my eyes, looking at me with an unreadable expression. “You know what.”

“How? We haven’t talked in months.”

I see him flinch, just slightly, barely noticeable. He’s feeling… guilty? He should.

“I… Right. Yeah. I’m…” Oliver stammers, looking down at his hands now, fingers fiddling with one another. “I’m sorry about… leaving. Last summer. About the call. About turning up here now.”

“That’s a lot to be sorry for.” I can’t hold back the accusing words, the biting tone. The pain Oliver has inflicted on me – multiple times now – dares to resurface, sudden and fierce. Maybe snark will help contain it. Cover it up so it’s not too obvious.

“Elio…”

“You wanted to talk, Oliver.” It’s difficult to hear him say my name, and to say his, too. “So talk.”

It takes another few moments for Oliver to start talking, enough time for me to lie down on the dewy grass, my T-shirt sure to get damp soon. I push my sunglasses over my eyes, looking up at Oliver as he stares at his own lap still.

“Alright, yeah. I did ask you here to talk.” It’s a mumble, but I still hear him clearly. The only other noise around us is the soft ripple of the water, and maybe a bird every now and then. No cicadas yet, not in April. “I’m sorry for leaving. I feel like that’s when all this… this mess started.”

He looks at me then, as if he expects me to say something. I think about it for a moment, then…

“I thought you didn’t have another choice? Your residency was over.”

“I mean… that was the plan, yeah. But.” A soft chuckle interrupts his words. “I mean… does it really matter _where_ I finish my manuscript?”

I just shrug, not really knowing what to say to that. No, it doesn’t matter. Apparently, Oliver could have stayed but decided against it. That just hurts more.

“I just… I thought… this was just a summer fling.” Oliver’s voice grows quiet as he leans back against the gnarly tree, his hand inching closer to mine but not touching. “I felt so guilty for… for taking so much from you, I told you from the start that I didn’t want to ruin you—“

“What?” This time it’s me that interrupts him, sitting up quickly and furrowing my brows at him. I take my sunglasses off, just so he can fully see my incredulous expression. “You didn’t—Shit, do you _still_ think like that? I’ve told you so many times…”

“I… Yeah, but I thought…”

“You thought you cared more about me than I cared about you.” It’s partly my fault; I was mean to him sometimes, last summer. It’s not like he’s entirely innocent in that department, though. “It’s not a competition, _Americano_.”

“Elio… You don’t understand. I was miserable after I left.”

“And you think I wasn’t? You think I was able to just… go back to being happy and carefree?”

I watch Oliver’s Adam’s apple move as he swallows hard, quickly looking away to watch an ant crawl up my shoelace.

“I… no. I know… it was hard. After Bergamo…”

The pain threatens to resurface tenfold at the mention of our trip to Bergamo; I remember how happy we were those few days, how much it hurt to watch the train disappear in the mountains, Oliver inside, on his way home, away from me. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.

“What…” I have to clear my throat, trying to hide what’s going on inside me right now. “How did you… happen to get engaged?”

“Oh. Uh.” Oliver’s shoulders tense up slightly at the question, and I barely hold back from reaching out to dig my fingers into them. “When I returned… my parents basically forced me to find a Jewish girl to marry right away. They thought I’d had my fun, it was time to settle down.” A dismissive shrug. “An old friend of mine… Clara. Her parents were the same. She just wanted to be an artist – a painter – but they cut her off financially, so… we both felt like we had no choice. We thought it was better to be stuck with each other than to lose our futures.”

“…Oh.” So Oliver didn’t just abandon all his feelings for me right after he left. “Oh, I… I’m sorry.”

He gives me a fond look, his shoulders slightly less tense now, shaking his head. “No, it wasn’t… you. I thought it was better for everyone, you know? You were… You were seventeen, Elio. I thought you didn’t…”

“…take us seriously?” I also lean back against the tree, exhausted by now, and closer to Oliver. I try not to blame him for thinking that. The way I acted sometimes… but also, the way _he_ acted, with his annoying ‘later’ and nonchalance… “I did, Oliver. I know that I can be… careless, sometimes. But I’ve never not given a fuck about you.”

I look away then, hoping that Oliver won’t see the expression change on my features. It’s already exhausting, just talking about this.

“I… I think I convinced myself that it would be easier if you didn’t care. So I started thinking that.” Oliver lifts his arms to cross them and rest them on his knees, the one closest to me brushing against mine. I desperately want to reach out and just… touch him. Hold his hand. “Pretty stupid, huh?”

“Yeah, I was just about to say, you’re not that smart for a scholar—“

“Oh, shush.” At least it makes Oliver laugh. I’ve missed his laugh. “I just… I don’t know. I thought you’d get over me, no problem. I was imagining you… with Marzia again. Or… some random guy from your school.”

“Oh? I mean… you’re not wrong.”

Oliver gives me a look, almost disappointed. “So there was someone?”

“Yeah. Random guy. We kissed once, he was so bad at it.” I shrug, meeting Oliver’s gaze. “You can’t be upset about this. You got _engaged_. That’s worse.”

“I am upset. You can’t tell me what to do.” It’s not entirely serious, and Oliver’s poking my side, so I let it slide. “But… yeah. You’re right. Guess we both tried to move on but it didn’t work.”

It sounds… hopeful. I don’t want to disappoint him, but… “Yeah. But. That doesn’t make it all okay again.”

“Right.” Oliver lets his head loll back, his hair pressing against the rough bark of the tree, his eyes slipping shut. “So… The call.”

“The call.” I nod, leaning my own head back as well, mirroring him. The pain is… slightly less prominent now. Maybe it’s the warmth of the sun that’s distracting me from it, maybe it’s sitting here and talking, just the two of us. “You know, it’s rude to call with bad news during Hanukkah.”

Oliver snorts and rolls his eyes, turning his head slightly to look at me. “Me getting married is bad news?”

“Yes.”

“Unbelievable…” He mumbles, reaching to poke my foot with the tip of his shoe. “I mean… I probably should have shown up in person, right?”

“No.” He would’ve seen me cry, and that… is never good. He’s only ever seen me cry… twice. “You shouldn’t have left in the first place.”

“Elio…”

“I’m tired. Can we take a break?”

There’s a sigh, but Oliver still nods. I slide down to lie in the grass again, the rough bark scratching my back, my T-shirt riding up a little, the dew on it helping to cool down my heated skin. Oliver does the same, sliding a little closer to me. His arm presses against mine, and I focus on the warmth of it, the feeling of his soft skin and coarse hair and taut muscles. I close my eyes as I feel his finger stroke over the back of my hand, a warm flush spreading across my cheeks.

Maybe none of this would be as bad as I had feared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was running away from me, so I thought I'd split it up into two parts! The next one will hopefully be done soon.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read/commented/left kudos! I really appreciate it <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Growing closer.

We don’t talk again for a few hours; opting to nap and bathe in the warm sun.

Well, we do talk. About meaningless things. The weather, some snowstorm that hit New York a few weeks ago, the upcoming apricot season. The latter seems to excite Oliver more than anything.

“It’s just not the same, getting apricots from the grocery store. They’re just… bad. Every single one of them is bad.”

“…Why are you obsessed with apricots, all of a sudden?”

“’Cause I had them all summer, and now I can’t have them anymore.”

That certainly shuts me up.

I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it, he was really just talking about apricots, but… I can’t help but feel like it applies to me, too. Neither of us have had… apricots, in a while.

Apparently, Oliver notices too.

“Oh, uh. I… You know what I mean. I didn’t—“

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

I get up then, cheeks bright red from embarrassment, to go and dip my toes into the cold water of the lake. I’ve been sitting with Oliver, way too close, for a while; I need a bit of a break.

He seems to have taken the hint, so he stays by the tree, watching me as I take off my shoes, my socks, slowly stepping into the water with a low hiss. It almost feels hot against my skin with how cold it is, and I quickly have goosebumps all over. I turn around to look back at Oliver, hands on my hips.

“It’s not that bad!”

“Mhm.” Oliver doesn’t seem convinced. He picks up my sunglasses and fiddles with them for a moment before pushing them over his eyes. I’m guessing he still remembers just how _not warm_ this lake is. “Have fun!”

“No, seriously, you should come join me.”

“I don’t think I will.”

“Your loss.” I huff and roll my eyes, turning again and wading through the water a little further.

It takes a little while for me to return to the tree, feeling a little cold at this point, the hems of my shorts wet.

“So… fun?”

“Yeah.” I sit down, throwing my legs over Oliver’s lap, laughing when he yelps.

“Hey!”

“What? I wanted you to come with me and you said no, so this is your punishment.”

“Dumbass.” Oliver’s laughing too now, lightly shoving my shoulder. I yield to it more than I should, falling back into the grass and stretching my limbs.

“…You hungry?”

“No.” I look up at him, reaching to grab my sunglasses off his face. He doesn’t let me. “Are you?”

“Yeah. We should grab something. Pizza. And come back here.”

“Where are we going to get pizza? It’s not even noon yet.”

“Oh. Right.” Oliver seems to forget that this isn’t New York. Nothing is open 24/7 here. “So… back to the house.”

I don’t want to, but I also don’t feel like making up reasons for staying here. “Yeah. I guess.”

I do my best to dry off my legs with my jacket, putting my shoes back on and tugging at Oliver’s shirt to lead him back onto the path. It’s quiet between us for a few minutes, but of course that can’t last.

“You know, you’re still a brat.”

I grin back at Oliver, shrugging. “I told you. Punishment. You should’ve just joined me.”

“And freeze my ass off? No thanks.”

“Oh, yeah. That would’ve been tragic.” I laugh to hopefully distract from my flushed cheeks, swatting at Oliver’s hands when he shoves me again. “Hey!”

“ _Brat_.”

“Asshat.”

We have to stop in the middle of the path then because Oliver starts tickling me, a dirty trick he learned last summer. My sides are particularly sensitive, and I hate that he knows that.

“No—Stop!”

“Never!” Oliver is merciless, not stopping until I’m on the ground and begging for him to stop, my legs desperately kicking out to fight back.

Even though it’s torture for me – and nothing but enjoyment for Oliver – it still feels nice to forget about everything serious between us for a few moments. I’m breathless when Oliver finally ends his torment, holding my belly and gulping air between bouts of laughter. I feel the dirt from the path sticking to my damp legs, flipping Oliver off when he sits down next to me, his own face flushed and eyes bright.

“Fuck you!”

“Hey, you started it—“

“I didn’t start anything! You nearly killed me.”

“Oh, come on, you’re always so dramatic.”

“Well.” And there it is. As soon as I calm down a little, reality starts to hit me again. Just the fact that Oliver knew how to get to me, the way he talks about me… I’m ‘always’ like that. It’s infuriating. “You know my parents. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“That’s true.”

We sit there until my face isn’t bright red anymore, back to its usual paleness, and Oliver pats my arm before getting up first.

“You alright?”

“Mhm.” I accept his hand, letting him help me up. We’re suddenly far too close, and Oliver still has this annoying grin on his face, causing me to huff. And then to kiss his cheek and run backwards.

“Last one home buys pizza tonight!” I yell back at him before turning around, stomach swooping, almost completely sure that I’m going to win today.

Hours later, I’m busy writing in my journal, sitting on my bed cross-legged, when there’s a knock on the door. It’s really only one person it could be.

“Come in!”

“You suck.”

I laugh and look up when Oliver enters, quickly closing my journal and shoving it under my pillow. No need to reveal my deepest, darkest secrets right now. Maybe later.

Oliver just continues to complain, plopping down on the bed and putting two pizza boxes between us. “Why’d you make me go all the way into town again?”

“Because you lost the race! And you haven’t been in town yet, so…”

“It took _hours_. They’re preparing for some… festivities or something, _so_ many people were there. And they all recognised me from last year.”

“Oh, yeah. Tomorrow’s Good Friday. They’re preparing for a huge mass.” I shrug, pulling one of the boxes onto my lap, the smell enticing me already. “Easter’s pretty big here. Catholic country, remember?”

“Oh. Yeah.” I glance up just in time to see Oliver nod and give me a look, before he, too, focuses on the pizza. “Are… Do you guys usually attend, too?”

“Nope. I mean, there’s this huge party tonight, and it’s mostly younger people, so I’ll be there. But we’re not really into… church.” I shrug again. “Dad goes sometimes. Just to socialise with everyone.”

“Mh.” It doesn’t seem like Oliver’s entirely disinterested. “So… a party?”

“Yeah.” I take my first bite; the pizza is lukewarm at best, but it’s still good. “…Do you want to come, too?”

“What?”

I look up again, stretching my foot to poke Oliver’s knee with my toe. “Got anything better to do?”

“…No. I mean. Yes, I’ll come to the party.”

“Good.” I lean back against the wall then, stuffing more pizza into my mouth to hide my grin.

Silence settles over us as we eat, and I watch Oliver as he looks around the room. I wonder what he’s thinking about; being back in my room after such a long time. I’m not brave enough to ask that question just yet, so I decide to ask something else.

“Tell me about Clara.”

Oliver blinks in surprise, putting the half-eaten slice of pizza he was just holding down and clearing his throat. “I… I told you, we were just friends stuck in an awful situation, we never—“

“I know. It’s not about that.” I’m not jealous. I’m not. Maybe… Maybe I feel a little iffy that she had Oliver around her for months while all I could do was think about him, imagine that he was still here, by my side. “I’m just curious.”

“Oh. Well… She’s… one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. Like, she’ll do anything for her friends, and her siblings. She’s pretty too, I guess. Really artsy and smart. And a good listener. This one time—“

“Did you tell her about us?” It comes out before I can stop myself, and I’m immediately embarrassed. I might have to kick Oliver out and stay in my room for the rest of the day, just to recover from that.

“I… Yeah. I did.” Oliver instantly notices my panicked look, causing him to smile a little. “Don’t worry about. She… She knows about me.”

Although I’m still mortified with myself, my curiosity wins. I want to know more about Oliver; we were too focused on other things last year to really talk about these things.

“Were you… Have you ever… with other men?”

Oliver snorts at my awkwardness. Of course. “Yeah, I have.”

He doesn’t offer anything else, so I continue to probe. This is what he wants, isn’t it? “When?”

“Well… sometimes, it would just be one-night stands.” He shrugs, picking up his slice of pizza again to take another bite. “I was in a relationship a few years ago, though.”

“With a man?” Oliver nods. “Tell me about him.”

Another laugh. It’s starting to be annoying. “You’re so nosy…”

“Come on! You can’t just start a story and then… not tell me anything else. I want to know.” I poke his arm, again and again. “Please. Tell me. Tell. Me.”

“Alright, alright.” He doesn’t swat my hand away, just leans back with a grin. “His name’s Thomas. Tommy, I called him. We met at a bar.”

Oliver falls silent then, watching me as I give him my full attention. I fully expect him to say something else, but… no.

“…That’s it?”

He shrugs. “It didn’t work out. What else is there to say?”

“How long were you with him?”

“A few months.” Oliver tilts his head, a small frown between his brows. “Why are you so interested in this?”

“You started it. I’m curious.” I shrug, turning my head to look at the window now. I don’t tell Oliver that it’s exciting, that I like the fact that he’s experienced – with guys – and that it might mean… something. Something more. For him and me.

“…Alright.” He clears his throat then, closing the pizza box. “I guess I should get ready for the party.”

“We leave at seven.”

Seconds later, I listen to the door open and close, finally emitting the breath I’ve been holding. No need to wallow now – I get up, open the doors of my closet to pick an outfit. None of this will be easy, I already know it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party and its aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update, I had a few deadlines to keep.
> 
> Thank you for reading, comments and kudos are always appreciated <3

Hours later – hours of picking out clothes and throwing them back into the closet in frustration because nothing looks good enough – we finally arrive in town, the party just starting to get going.

I feel Oliver’s eyes on me as I walk towards what seems to be the drinks table; his eyes have been on me ever since we left the house. I know why. I’m wearing his shirt, his blue shirt that he gave to me last summer, open and hanging on my slight frame, tied at the waist so that it doesn’t look like a potato sack but actually looks _decent_. It took me longer than I’d like to admit to get it to look like this, so I almost preen at the attention Oliver is giving me. He still hasn’t said a word about it, though.

I grab two bottles of cheap but cold beer, handing one to Oliver. Finally, he drags his eyes away from my shirt – his shirt, _our_ shirt – to look at the people dancing and laughing and kissing. Everyone’s already having a good time.

“Pretty crowded already.”

“Mhm.” I glance at Oliver, studying his profile; illuminated by the colourful fairy lights that are strung between lamp posts, he looks even better than usual – if that’s possible. “I told you. Easter’s a big deal. Everyone wants to celebrate.”

“So… they drink during lent?”

I shrug, unable to stop myself from grinning in amusement. “Doesn’t always have to make sense, does it?”

“I guess not.”

Oliver moves then, and I follow. Of course I do.

We end up sitting down on a bench not too far from the monument in the middle of the _piazzetta_. Again, last summer comes to mind. We spent a lot of time here. Pivotal moments. I wonder if Oliver is thinking the same.

I don’t get to ask, or even ponder for another moment, before a hand wraps around my arm and tugs me up from my seat and into the crowd.

“Elio!” Several different shouts of my name, a few people crowding around me so I feel disoriented for a moment. I want to go back to sit with Oliver, to talk to him, to drink with him, but I choose to greet my friends first, accepting their hugs and kisses and another bottle that’s being shoved into my hand. I get one more good look at Oliver, giving him an apologetic smile, before I’m being pulled further into the crowd.

Some time passes. I’m not sure if it’s minutes or hours or even the whole night. Dancing and drinking render time meaningless; especially once Oliver gets off his ass and joins the little group I’m in, sometimes brushing against me and reaching to hold my hand for a split second. It’s the best party I’ve ever been to.

But then it’s suddenly over, and Oliver insists that we walk our bikes all the way back to the house because I’m too drunk, according to him. It’s not true – my head is buzzing pleasantly, and the world seems a little better and funnier right now, but I’m not entirely wasted. Maybe.

I don’t last long; in the midst of trying to convince Oliver as we walk down the road, I burst into laughter, cheeks flushing as I almost trip over my own feet.

“Elio…”

“I’m not—Not drunk!” I hiccup, trying to give him my best frowny face but failing, instead starting to giggle again.

Oliver snorts in reply, and I see him shaking his head through tears. There are tears now. Fantastic. “What’s so funny?”

“Mmh… You!” I point at Oliver with both hands, feeling something hard and metal bang against my shin. I’d hardly notice it if it weren’t for Oliver stopping and dropping his bike.

“Elio, what—Are you okay?”

“Yes!” I stop too, because walking by myself is less fun.

“C’mon, we’re almost home, let’s—“

“Mmh… No.” I sit down then, shaking my head. It’s spinning now, not so pleasantly anymore. “Let’s… camp here. Yes.”

“No.”

“ _Yes_.”

I see Oliver roll his eyes in the bright moonlight – is it the full moon already? Is that why everything is spinning? – and he crouches down, resting a big hand on my knee. Suddenly, nothing is funny anymore.

“You’re bleeding, Elio. We should get you home and cleaned up.”

“I’m… not sure if I can.”

Oliver gives me a fond look and I’m seconds away from pulling him into a sloppy kiss, but then he gets up and walks away from me. I don’t like that at all.

“Nooo… Staaaaay…”

“I’m just hiding our bikes.”

“Come back!” I push my bottom lip out, pouting as I watch Oliver pick up our bikes and hide them in the shrubbery.

“I’m back.” It takes way too long, but finally, _finally_ , Oliver kneels down next to me again and rests his hand on my knee. “You okay?”

I just look at him and nod, a stupid smile on my face as I reach out to wrap my arms around his neck. He snorts softly, helping me stand and sliding an arm around my waist to hold me up while we walk. The world is still spinning, but at least Oliver is here.

It probably takes a lot longer than usual to get home, but I don’t really notice; my leg hurts, my brain can’t focus on anything, but I’m warm and Oliver is holding me and my head is resting on his shoulder. I’m tempted to close my eyes and just let him lead me, which I do after a moment of thinking about it. It’s just too comfortable not to.

I come to again when my back hits something soft – a mattress, I notice after a few seconds. I open my eyes, whining immediately when I feel Oliver removes his arms from around my waist.

“Noooo…”

“Hey, sleeping beauty.”

“Stay.”

I reach up to poke the frown between Oliver’s brows, pouting a little.

“You’re drunk, Elio.”

“Kiss me.”

“Elio…”

“I’m not that drunk. Kiss me.”

I blink at Oliver and wait, and he seems to be contemplating my demand. At least he’s not instantly rejecting me, right?

“Elio, I don’t… I’m gonna stay with you, alright?”

Oliver sits down on the bed then, mattress dipping with his weight. I roll over to my side, hands clawing at his shirt to pull him close.

“Will you kiss me now?”

“No.”

I emit a soft whine at the delayed rejection, immediately distracted when Oliver dabs at the scratch on my shin with a tissue. “Ow!”

“Oh, shush.”

I do actually shut up, content to just lie there and watch Oliver; his features are tight with concentration, the moonlight that’s filtering in through the window highlighting his cheekbones and nose and jaw. He’s so beautiful I want to cry.

“There.” He gives me a smile and I turn my head to hide my face against a pillow. “Do you think you’re gonna hurl?” I shake my head and he pats my knee. “Sleep now, okay?”

“You said you’ll stay.”

“…I did say that.” The mattress moves when Oliver stands up, and I stretch my legs when I feel his hand on my ankle. He’s taking my shoes off for me now.

Minutes later the mattress dips again as Oliver lies down next to me. I immediately move up to him, arms wrapping around him and face pressing against his chest. A hiccup jolts through my chest and then there’s wetness on my cheeks and I just can’t handle how nice Oliver is being when he shushes me and strokes my hair.

“Elio…”

“Why—Why won’t you—“

“Because you’re drunk, Elio. I’m not gonna take advantage of you like this.”

“But—“ Another hiccup – that sounds a little bit like a sob – and I cling to Oliver, hands fisted into his shirt to make him stay as close to me as possible. “Why can’t you just… do it. ‘s good for both of us.”

“…Look at me.” I’m not ready to pull away, but I do it anyway, chin tilting up to meet Oliver’s gaze. “If you still want me to kiss you tomorrow morning, we’ll do it, okay? But not right now.” I almost think he’s lying because his hand is now on my cheek and we’re so _close_ , but I nod anyway. ‘Later’ is better than ‘never’.

Oliver seems satisfied with that, his hand slipping into my hair to pull my head against his chest again.

“Good night, Elio.”

I don’t respond, too comfortable and content with Oliver’s presence so close to me, his scent all around me, his hands on my back and in my hair, falling asleep like this.

Waking up _sucks_. There’s a stinging pain in my head, a horrible bitter taste in my mouth, and the sun is too bright. I immediately hate everything and everyone, and all I want is for sleep to take me again.

After a minute of taking in my surroundings, though, I reconsider. Maybe waking up isn’t too bad when there’s a familiar presence behind you, a strong arm around your waist, a pair of soft lips on your neck. I close my eyes again, trying to enjoy the brief moment of bliss before the burning embarrassment about last night takes over. It’s all coming back to me, of course, because I didn’t drink enough to make myself forget.

Carefully, I move my arm to rest it on top of Oliver’s, slotting my fingers with his.

The regret that comes with it is instant, because Oliver shifts and groans and mumbles my name, asking me if I’m awake, if I’m okay.

I turn my head, cheeks hot, and nod a little. “Yeah. Hi.”

“Morning.”

We stare at each other for a moment. I know he can see just how embarrassed I am.

“Oliver—“

“Elio, it’s okay. Last night? It’s okay. You don’t have to explain.”

I should be feeling relieved after that, but… nothing is okay, is it? I made a complete fool of myself. I was too _honest_ , I forgot to keep up the façade. Nothing is okay.

“…If you say so.”

“Still want me to kiss you?” The tone is joking, but I see right through it. I know Oliver. I know what he looks like just before we kiss. His eyes betray him.

Instead of answering, I turn in Oliver’s arms, watching his smile fade. We’re close now, as close as we were last night, and still holding hands. Even though my head still hurts – _everything_ hurts, because this is all too much to handle and I’m overwhelmed – I just want to stay here forever. Forget everything.

Just as Oliver looks like he’s going to say something, I lean in.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kiss and its consequences.

As if acting on instinct, Oliver meets me halfway.

And then we’re kissing, and I clutch Oliver’s hand to my chest, the other sliding up his and lightly rests on his neck, feeling his pulse against my palm.

The kiss is chaste, innocent almost, but it still makes my toes curl and I can feel my heartbeat in my ears. Oliver is all around me – his scent, his arm around my waist, a sharp exhale against my cheek. A sense of _finally_ settles in my chest; finally we’re kissing, finally Oliver is as close as I want him to be, _finally_. This has been days, weeks, months in the making.

I pull back from the kiss, just to look at Oliver. He’s beautiful; hair mussed from sleep, his eyes meeting mine in a heated gaze, slick lips parted slightly, exhaling a breath. He looks like he wants to say something, but stays quiet. Like me. I want this moment to last forever.

Or, maybe not, because it’s much better when Oliver moves in to kiss me again, a little more forcefully this time. A noise of surprise turns into a soft groan when I feel his tongue against mine suddenly, still as velvety and _perfect_ as I remember. His hand is in my hair then, ripping another noise from my throat. The haze of sleep is still hanging over me, I tell myself, so it makes sense that I don’t seem to have control over myself right now.

Moments later, my hands are pushing at Oliver’s shoulders and he falls on his back way too easily. I can’t hold back a grin, taking advantage of his apparent surprise and hiking a leg over Oliver’s hip before rolling on top of him, soon straddling his waist. I lean down to lick a stripe up his chin and over his lips, hands cupping his cheeks.

Oliver laughs and holds my face in his big hands, his palms exuding warmth and causing me to close my eyes, just to revel in the moment.

“Elio…” I whisper in a desperate attempt to tell him something without saying it, something I’m not even brave enough to admit to myself, hoping that he’ll understand.

“Oliver.” He replies after a beat, blinking up at me with his bright blue eyes, an unreadable expression in them. “Oliver…”

I quickly lean in for another kiss, swallowing the noise Oliver emits when I lower my body on his, gripping his shoulders to press him down a little, trying to keep him where he is. I don’t want him to leave. Not now.

Oliver is quick to deepen the kiss, to caress my tongue with his, his hands still holding my face, thumbs stroking over my cheeks. It’s painfully familiar, the way Oliver communicates through touch, the way my heart beats too fast to be healthy, the way I lean and arch into him instinctively. It all feels like a dream.

That is, until reality hits like a ton of bricks.

I pull back from the kiss with a soft gasp, quickly rolling off Oliver as I try to catch my breath. It _is_ too good to be true, because Oliver is leaving again in just a few days. No matter how much I don’t want it to happen, he’ll be gone. He’ll leave me for the second time. I grab the pillow from under my head to press it down on my face, groaning in frustration.

I can feel Oliver’s eyes on me, but neither of us is moving or saying anything just yet. Maybe he’s processing, too. Maybe he feels bad. _Good_.

Then, finally, he clears his throat and speaks up. “Elio…?”

“What.”

I feel his fingers brush against my arm, grateful that he’s not trying to take my pillow away. All I’ve done is embarrass myself, and I’m not ready to face it all.

“Is, uhm… Can we—Can we talk about this?”

“You always wanna talk.”

“Because it’s important. I don’t want to hurt you—“

“Well, guess what. You already have.” I sit up, the little flame of anger that’s been nestled in my chest since last year suddenly bursting. I throw the pillow at Oliver. “You left me. You decided for both of us. You decided for _me_ , you didn’t even care what I wanted—“

“Elio, I had no choice—“

“Yes, you fucking did!” My voice is louder now, and Oliver is still stroking over my arm and that’s _infuriating_. “You’re an adult, free to make your own fucking choices. Why did you do it? Why did you leave me?”

My breath hitches as my voice cracks, and there’s a pressure behind my eyes that I’m desperately trying to suppress. Oliver is quiet for a few moments before I feel the mattress move; he’s sitting up as well, hand sliding down my arm to hold mine. I let him. For now.

“Elio, I… I’m so sorry.” It’s the first time he’s apologised for leaving, but somehow this hurts even more. “I thought I was doing you a favour. I thought… with you being so young…”

“I’m not a damn child!”

“Sshh, I know. I know.” His efforts to calm me down don’t work. He rests his forehead on my shoulder as I look down at my shaky hands. “I thought that it was… just a summer romance or something. That it wasn’t serious. But Bergamo… those few days, when it was just the two of us, I realised that I was in denial.”

It doesn’t help. I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. I’d do anything for a smoke right now.

“Why’d you come back?” I look out the open window on the other side of the room, focusing on a leaf from the tree that’s just outside.

“I… I needed to see you. I needed to see if I still…” Oliver trails off again, his hand resting on my forearm now. “Please, Elio. Please, I just want to talk to you.”

A shaky sigh escapes my lips as I slide off the bed, moving to my desk to grab the half-empty pack of cigarettes. I hear Oliver shift on the sheets behind me, but he doesn’t say anything. I sit down on the window sill, the cool morning breeze lifting the back of my shirt slightly and making me shiver.

“Fine. So talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this took so long and is a lot shorter than the other chapters, I know it's all over the place. Due to recent events I haven't really been able to focus on writing or doing anything productive.
> 
> I hope you still enjoyed, thanks for reading! Stay safe, everyone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for mention of illness/death.

Oliver looks surprised at my blunt words, blinking and staring at me for what feels like several minutes. I bite my tongue as not to say anything else, carefully resting my hand on my shin – oh, right, there’s a wound caused by my bike; should probably tend to that at some point, but it doesn’t hurt – while the other holds onto my cigarette maybe a bit too tightly. I haven’t smoked in months, I’ve almost quit – mostly for my mother’s sake – but I need this now. It’s a lifeline that I’m unwilling to give up right this moment.

Another drag, and Oliver finally speaks up.

“So… I’m sorry.”

“You’ve said that.” So much for staying quiet.

“Elio…” Oliver looks amused, rolling his eyes and playing with the corner of the pillow I threw at him.

“…Sorry.”

Oliver shakes his head, shifting until he’s sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed. “Don’t. Don’t be. I…” He ducks his head, looking at the pillow. There he is, the surprisingly shy man who has trouble expressing his feelings, the result of years of building up walls to keep out the pain and disappointment of family just as emotionally stunted. I’d once been allowed past those walls, just to sneak a peek, just to see parts of who he really is. I’ve been desperate to go back since, to crush those walls once and for all. Even now, when I’m supposed to be angry and sad and cold, I can’t deny that he’s pulling me in again, knowingly or not. I’m just watching him, trying to be patient, waiting.

“So… What you said, about me making my own choices?” He glances at me briefly, seemingly trying to convey an apology with his expression. “You’re right. I _should_ be doing that, but it’s not that simple.”

“Why? I’m eighteen and I make all of my own decisions.” It doesn’t really make sense to me.

“That’s because your family is better than mine, Elio. They see you as an individual, not some puppet they can control however they please.” Oliver shifts towards the end of the bed, and I lean forward a little after another drag of my smoke. “Last summer… I don’t think I’ve ever felt this free before, this happy, like there wasn’t a storm waiting for me back home.”

I still watch him, and now he’s holding my gaze, his eyes open and vulnerable. I bite my tongue.

“Something… happened. Last spring, a few weeks before I came here.” He seems to have trouble getting his words out, more so than usual. I quickly finish my cigarette, holding on to the windowsill with both hands, ready to push myself off and join Oliver on the bed. “Remember when I told you about my ex? Tommy?”

“Yeah.” There’s an unsubstantiated pang of jealousy in my chest that I quickly push away. There’s no time for that now. “Messy breakup?” Maybe that’s why he was hesitant with me at first; and then I was a distraction. Maybe.

“No, no. We broke up years ago. It…” He rests his hands on the pillow on his lap then, looking down as he plays with his fingers. “He… got really ill. He caught—caught _it_. And then he died.”

The way he says it, voice suddenly void of emotion, makes me surge forward, sitting on the bed now and meeting his gaze.

“…I’m so sorry, Oliver.” He doesn’t have to explain anything else; I know what he’s talking about. I’ve seen the news, I’ve heard how they talk about gay men, I’ve felt their pain all the way across countries and oceans. “Were you…?”

“No. No, he got sick a few months before he…” Oliver trails off again, gaze dropping to his hands again.

Needless to say, I didn’t expect _this_. I can feel the weight that’s on Oliver’s chest, just by being in his presence as he’s talking about it.

“Anyway.” He clears his throat, shrugging. “I needed to get away, so… I took the internship. I just wanted to escape my life for a while, you know?” I nod, because that’s all I can do right now. “I didn’t expect any of this. I didn’t expect… you.”

A soft snort escapes me at that and I have to look away, feeling Oliver’s hand sneak closer and quickly putting mine on top of his. “So… I was your distraction?”

“No. Well. Yes. But not in a bad way.” Oliver tilts his head to catch my eye, giving me a little smile. It helps, just a bit. “I was so adamant about ignoring you. I didn’t want to ruin you.”

“You didn’t—“

“I know. I know, Elio.” His fingers squeeze mine briefly. “I tried so hard to be… careful with you. I didn’t want to break your heart. And after… after that first night… I thought you’d gotten it all out of your system. You were so distant, so I thought… good. Good, you won’t want to be involved with me anymore, and I could go back to wallowing in my misery.”

“But I didn’t.”

“You didn’t.” Oliver echoes quietly, letting go of my hand and leaning back to lie down. I join him, grabbing the pillow and resting my head on it, laying on my side and looking at his profile. Gorgeous as ever, but now there’s more to his face; now I can see sadness in the faint lines around his eyes, trauma in the downturned corners of his mouth.

I’m brought out of my musings when Oliver starts to speak again.

“I just couldn’t stop thinking about you. And even though I knew that this… what we had, it had to end too soon, I was _so_ happy when you came back to me.”

The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I still hold back. I’m still hurt and angry and sad, and Oliver knows that. He knows that he won’t be forgiven easily. Just as I know that he won’t soon forget that I was the one who stopped writing letters, way before he called me during Hanukkah.

“I don’t think I’ve ever fallen in love with someone so fast.”

There it is. There’s the unspoken truth that we’ve both known way before our first kiss. Oliver is still not looking at me, his eyes trained on the ceiling, while I keep staring at his profile. I can’t say anything, because… what good would it do? He’ll leave again, and history will repeat itself as it so often does. But I _need_ to say something, because I’m stubborn and my heart doesn’t want to accept reality. My brain knows – it knows that this can never happen, that there is no future for a summer fling. But my heart is stubborn.

“I—“

“Boys! Breakfast!”

My mother’s voice startles me, and I sit up so quickly that my head spins for a moment. Oliver doesn’t flinch, just gets up and bends down to put on his shoes. I watch him, my mouth trying to form words, a desperate attempt, but to no avail.

He glances over his shoulder as he stands and places his hand on the doorknob, giving me the tiniest smile.

“Later?”

_Later_. It doesn’t seem obnoxious now. Maybe it never was. Maybe I was just annoyed at how easily Oliver managed to get under my skin.

“Later.”

It eventually turns _later_ , and after a quiet breakfast – where both of my parents scold me for drinking so much last night, then proceed to hug and kiss me and thank Oliver for taking care of me – we make our way down the road where we left our bikes.

It was difficult not to stare at Oliver during breakfast, to stay silent when he broke his egg in the clumsiest fashion. _One of these days_ , I think to myself, _I’ll teach you how to eat an egg. You’re a PhD student, Oliver, this is embarrassing_.

Now, I’m not stopping myself from looking at Oliver, stumbling over my own feet a couple of times as we walk. He glances at me as well, and I know he wants to say something but doesn’t.

Once we have the bikes, Oliver suggest that we go to our special place again, that we relax by the water so that I can recover from my hangover. It’s an excuse to be alone and undisturbed but I don’t say that. We both know it. My head doesn’t ache as much anymore, but I still appreciate the excuse.

It’s not long until I’m wading through the water again, like I did the other day, and Oliver watches me with his stupid, annoying smirk that makes my toes all tingly.

I soon join him under our tree, leaning back against the hard bark and letting my legs dry in the warm sun. It’s beginning to feel like summer, but without the blistering heat and the constant threat of sunburn. I prefer spring in Italy; it’s nice and warm, and not unbearable.

“So…” Oliver clears his throat and I look at him, pushing my sunglasses down to hide my eyes. He does the same thing. “…Can we talk some more?”

“Sure.” The conversation is far from over, I know that. This thing between us… it’s too complex to be over, even after days of talking and finding out little tidbits. “Yeah.”

Silence falls over us again for a little while, and Oliver slides down to rest his head in my lap. I let him, figuring that it’s better to be close while we talk. There’s no real reason for it, no matter how much I try to come up with one.

“I think I left a part of me behind on that platform.” Oliver mumbles as I start to card my hand through his thick blond strands. “Been running around like a headless chicken ever since.”

The thought of that makes me snort. “Headless chicken? You Americans and your sayings…” Humming, I look down at his features, moving his hand from his hair to push his sunglasses down his nose. “You left your shirt behind.”

“I was selfish. Didn’t want you to forget me.”

“How could I?” I shake my head, taking his sunglasses off completely now and, mindful of those piercing blue eyes watching me, moving my finger down the slope of his nose and pursing my lips.

“…Dunno.” I’m obviously distracting him, so I go back to stroking his hair. “I told you, I thought this was just going to be a fling for you. I shouldn’t have thought that.”

I tug a little at his hair, huffing. “No. You shouldn’t have.”

“I know.” He takes his glasses back then, placing them on his nose again. “After I got back home, I… I stayed with Clara. She helped me through some stuff, and we got engaged. We were ready to settle, because we loved each other as friends and it was better than… than being alone and unhappy and broke, you know?”

He seems desperate for my approval, the way he’s trying to rationalise this particular decision.

“I… Why would your parents cut you off? Just because you haven’t found the right girl or whatever?”

“Yeah.” It doesn’t sound real to me, but it _is_. Maybe some parents are just… assholes. Selfish assholes. “They, uh. I think they knew about some of the things I did in the city. They wanted me to marry some girl and have a bunch of kids and be normal.”

“They suck.” I brush some of Oliver’s hair over his forehead, then push it back again. I can’t decide what looks better. “Screw them.”

“They’re paying for my studies, Elio. I can’t ‘screw them’ until I’m done.”

“And when is that?”

Oliver smiles a little, turning his head to brush his nose against my shirt. I instinctively suck in my tummy. “This fall.”

I emit a quiet hum in response, meeting his eyes when he pushes his sunglasses up to look at me. “And… what then?”

“Then… I’m going to hopefully get a position at the History department of the University of Milan.”

“…Excuse me?” I’m pretty sure somehow, some water got in my ears and now I can’t hear anything properly. “Milan?”

Oliver sits up then, and my hand falls into my lap. I can’t help but stare. How—

“It makes sense, doesn’t it? Researching… old shit in an old country.”

“Don’t—Why didn’t you tell me?” I’m suddenly mad, mad that I was left out of a big decision _again_. Sure, it may be just what Oliver said, but him living near me has other implications, too.

“I asked your dad if it was okay—“

“What the hell?” I get up then, a wave of panic spreading in my chest, feeling small and vulnerable and sick of being treated like a child. “But—But not me?”

“Elio, wait…”

Oliver gets up as well but I’m already off, running towards my bike and getting on it.

“Later!” I yell over my shoulder, hoping that he hears the hurt and anger in my tone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for so much teen angst.
> 
> Happy Pride to my fellow LGBTQ+ peeps.


End file.
